


Here (we will build us a home)

by decidueye



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:44:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6211261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidueye/pseuds/decidueye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Travelling by lamp isn’t comfortable, but it’s cheap. Time passes strangely, and Koutarou doesn’t know how many hours he’s been in here, smaller and bigger than he’s supposed to be all at the same time. It’s dark, and Koutarou passes the time wallowing, a skill he’s mastered over the last half a century.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Koutarou is a djinn on a mission, but his arrival in Japan provides more of a reprieve than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here (we will build us a home)

**Author's Note:**

> this is my contribution the the haikyuu!! rarepair exchange, written for [katie](http://achievingnormality.tumblr.com). i decided to go with a supernatural au, and i really hope i've captured the elements you wanted!

Travelling by lamp isn’t comfortable, but it’s cheap. Time passes strangely, and Koutarou doesn’t know how many hours he’s been in here, smaller and bigger than he’s supposed to be all at the same time. It’s dark, and Koutarou passes the time wallowing, a skill he’s mastered over the last half a century.

When he's finally let out, Kuroo is waiting for him with a broad smile and a cool hello, and it's him Koutarou sees first before starting to take in his surroundings. Kuroo hasn't changed in 70 years; his hair is in disarray and his grin still cat-like even in human form. Kuroo's the only bakeneko Bokuto's met before, and he embodies every expectation with his insatiable curiosity, keen eyes and penchant for causing mischief.

"How was the journey?" Kuroo asks. He’s fidgeting, and Koutarou knows him well enough to realise he’s playing it casual, holding back his excitement despite the time they’ve spent apart. Koutarou rolls his shoulders, grunting as they click into place.

"Sucked," he replies, and then opens his arms wide. "I missed you."

They hug for a long time. Koutarou keeps his eyes shut, focusing on the sensation of bodily contact. It's been such a long time since he felt the embrace of someone he trusts absolutely; the embrace of anyone at all, really. Koutarou had almost forgotten what it was like to be clingy, and he swallows down the tight lump that's formed in his throat, inhaling shakily.

"Hey, Kou, it's okay." Kuroo's voice is gentler than Koutarou remembers, and his hand is large and warm against Koutarou's back. When he pulls away, he's smiling a little wetly, and he tugs on Koutarou's fingers, gesturing around the room Koutarou arrived in with excitement.

"I'm so hyped to finally be able to show you the bar. I made sure to let you out when we were closed, so that I could give you the full tour."

_ Untitled _ , Kuroo's dive bar for the supernatural in the suburbs of Tokyo, is exactly how Kuroo had described it when they'd met on a long vacation in Singapore. There's nothing special about it - the walls are bare aside from a couple of paintings, none of them particularly beautiful, and the kotatsu spaced unevenly around the room are old and worn - but the place feels so familiar, more familiar than any of the places Koutarou's visited on his search, and as Kuroo leads him around, pointing out the spots he'd described to Koutarou all those years ago, Koutarou can't help but feel like he's come home.

The stock is kept in the basement, and Kuroo lets Koutarou make his way down the stairs first, stopping at the foot of them when he senses another presence in the room. The second bakeneko Koutarou's seen in his expansive lifetime is stood beside several casks of sake, and he spares Koutarou a fleeting glance before turning his attention back to the notebook in his hand.

"You must be Bokuto," he says, voice soft and melodious, and Koutarou instinctively relaxes. "Welcome."

"Kenma, right?" Koutarou asks, because he had heard enough about him in Singapore.

“Right,” Kenma replies, and even though he doesn’t return the grin Koutarou gives him, something changes in his expression. “Welcome to  _ Untitled _ .”

“Thanks!” Koutarou isn’t deterred. “I’m looking forward to staying here.” 

“How long will that be for?” Kenma’s question comes just as Kuroo makes his way down the stairs, scolding him for being rude. Koutarou falters, hand coming behind his neck, nails scratching at the skin.

“Ah...that depends. I’m looking for someone.”

Kenma spares him a glance, and Koutarou purses his lips. He doesn’t really feel like talking, not really, not about this. After a moment’s pause, though, Kenma seems to decide to let it go, and he nods, allowing Koutarou to relax.

“Alright. As long as you pull your weight.”

“Hang on, Kenma, it’s my bar, I make the rules here.” Kuroo’s protests are immediately followed by a sheepish smile in Koutarou’s direction. “We could use the help though, if you have time.”

“Of course, I wasn’t expecting to stay here for free.” Koutarou claps Kuroo on the shoulder, “You say the word, I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

…

What Kuroo needs him to do turns out to be a lot of heavy lifting, and Koutarou berates him, telling him he’s completely wasting the opportunity of having a djinn around to do his bidding.

“What, are you going to grant me three wishes?” Kuroo teases, making Koutarou roll his eyes. The mythology of his species is a sore point, and Kuroo has been needling him about it since half a day after they met.

“Not exactly, but you could do a better job of utilising my skills.” Koutarou enunciates the last three words clearly, nudging Kuroo with his hip as he walks past with a barrel of ale, and Kuroo laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.

“I am doing, Kou. I’m utilising those wonderful, big arms of yours,” he says with a grin, and well, Koutarou has to give him that - he’s built up a lot of strength over the years, not wanting to rely on his magic to get him everywhere, and he’s comparatively larger than Kuroo, who is content to let others do his bidding.

Moving stock only takes up the morning, and despite offering to do more Koutarou is grateful Kuroo doesn’t take him up on it, leaving his afternoons free to dedicate to his search. He had traced Akaashi to Tokyo with the help of a Dowser in Suzhou, but now, alone in a city that is much larger than it had seemed on a map, he is at a loss. Still, it isn’t the worst place he’s been whilst searching, and he’s not about to give up now. Kuroo pats him on the shoulder each afternoon as he bids him farewell, and when Kenma realises his ventures are routine he starts to pack Koutarou lunches, an odd but welcome gesture that Koutarou makes sure to receive with gratitude.

Koutarou chases feathers. He picks up rumours from Yaku, one of Kuroo’s suppliers, about a group of demons that are impossible to find unless they want you to, and a painful familiarity twinges in his gut, so that’s where he starts. Yaku doesn’t know if there’s an owl among them - doesn’t know anything, really, he’d just heard the story from Yamamoto, who runs a yakiniku store in the city. Koutarou forgoes his packed lunch for once and hits Yamamoto at rush hour, when he doesn’t have much time for telling stories, even though it’s clear he wants to.

“Come back to me in a couple of hours, okay? I don’t have much, but I wanna help, especially if you’re the Bokuto Kuroo’s told us about.”

Koutarou spends his two hours nursing a curious warmth in his chest at the fact that everyone in Tokyo seems to have heard about him and thinking about Kenma. He’s fascinating, and Koutarou wants to know what Kuroo said to Kenma about him - something that makes him care enough to pack him lunches, even when his jokes are met with glances of irritation. 

All Koutarou gets out of Yamamoto, though, is one of the best yakiniku servings he’s had in his life and a couple of legends. It’s obvious the stories come directly from the rumour mill, and Koutarou doubts that the creator has ever met a demon, based on the feats that this group is supposed to have performed.

“They’re not  _ that _ fearsome,” Koutarou tells Taketora, stifling a laugh when he visibly relaxes. “Thanks for your help, but it sounds like bullshit. I think I should try a different tack... “

Yamamoto hums. “Maybe, but it’s a bird you’re looking for, right? Because I saved the best - or most real - story for last, and it’s about a bird.”

Just the mention is enough to have Koutarou looking up sharply, smoke curling from the tips of his hair as he leans forward, ashen heart pounding.

“What is it?”

Yamamoto is slow to speak, scratching his cheek as he tries to recall, and Koutarou’s fingertips tap against the table’s surface, knees bouncing impatiently.

“A while back, someone came into my shop who said she’d met them. She was real beaten up, looked like she’d been hit by a train, but healing, so I gave her a free meal in exchange for stories. That’s where I heard the first one I told you - the rest, I picked up along the way, because it’s become kind of a curiosity of mine, you know? It’s fascinating, even if it is a little morbid.”

“The bird?” Koutarou asks, heart too far up in his throat for him to be polite.

“Right, right. So she said… and I don’t remember it word for word, mind, but she said, when I told her that at least she was out of it now, and healing, and well fed, she said ‘no, I’m not. The bird followed me home.”

Koutarou hears the words, but takes his time fully processing them, still mouthing ‘followed me home’ several moments after Yamamoto’s finished speaking.

“Anything else?” he asks, and Yamamoto shakes his head, apologetic. “Thank you.”

It’s not much, but it’s enough. Koutarou has a new objective, another impossible thing to find.

… 

Kuroo works the bar every evening, leaving Koutarou to sit on the opposite side, drinking his fill beside Kenma, who nurses the same glass of fish oil for the entire night and keepsg to himself as much as possible. He’s so much quieter than Kuroo, and Koutarou reacts to that the same way he always does - by (playfully) antagonising him, doing anything for a reaction. Kenma ignores his needling for the most part, answering his questions with as few words as possible and a tired sigh, and it only further provokes Koutarou. He’s seen Kenma during the day, and he knows he’s not completely closed off. There are a select few - Kuroo, Yaku, some of the part time staff and suppliers - that Kenma treats as friends, showing an intriguing side of himself, teasing, and almost mischievous. Koutarou wants to be one of those few, and tries the only way he knows how: by worming his way under Kenma’s skin, cherishing each wrinkle of his nose, each glare that doesn’t quite hold the same heat that it used to.

“Why are you and Kuroo even friends, anyway?” Koutarou asks, even though he’s already figured it out. “He’s way too much like me for your tastes.”

Kenma glances at him sideways, lifting short fingers to brush a strand of his hair behind his ears.

“No, he’s not. He’s completely different.”

It’s true. Kuroo and Koutarou might act similarly when they’re together, but there are completely different things that drive them. That’s why they work so well together. Akaashi’s different, too, and so is Kenma - Koutarou’s always been attracted to his opposites.

Koutarou registers his own thought a moment too late and does a double take on himself, casting a quick look at Kenma. That’s a realisation to postpone to a later date, perhaps. Kenma catches his look, though, because he’s still watching Koutarou, his lips pursed in a curious frown.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Kenma says with a shrug, eyes turning back to his glass of fish oil. “It’s a little presumptuous of you to think that you know my tastes, that’s all.”

Koutarou doesn’t have a response to that. He feels like he’s mis-stepped, needled where he didn’t intend to, but also like Kenma didn’t intend to insult him. He’s hard to get a read on in the same way that Kuroo is, leaving Koutarou feeling exposed.

It’s thrilling.

Kuroo calls out last orders, and they finish their drinks in silence, Koutarou biting his lips to stem the flow of questions he wants to ask.

…

After that, things get easier. Koutarou’s teasing mellows into gentle poking now that he’s established Kenma cares for him, and Kenma’s biting marks carry less of their previous heat - or maybe they’re just easier to bear now that Koutarou knows they aren’t sincere. Koutarou learns to read Kenma’s facial expressions, from the quirk of his eyebrows to the slight movement of his lips, and he’s exposed to a whole new array of Kenma’s emotions. They’re fascinating, and Koutarou drinks them all up, much to Kuroo’s amusement.

“What, did you think he was a robot? Not everyone’s as expressive as you are, Kou.”

“I know that,” Koutarou says defensively, whacking Kuroo with the rag he’s using to wipe washed glasses, “I just think it’s cool.”

“What’s cool?”

“Kenma’s face -” Koutarou doesn’t have time to expand, because as he’s speaking Kenma walks into the bar, and his shocked expression quickly transforms into a smirk when Koutarou flushes.

“You think my face is cool?” Kenma asks quietly, and Koutarou stammers over the sound of Kuroo’s cackling.

Koutarou’s search stagnates, though he can’t be sure whether that’s due to a lack of leads beyond what Yamamoto told him, or because he’s finding himself taking more time off to focus on Kuroo, Kenma, and the bar. On busy nights, Kuroo trusts Koutarou enough to ask him to help out, and Koutarou finds that he loves working behind the bar, chatting with customers and casting occasional glances Kenma’s way to see if he’s impressed with the ease at which Koutarou works. The three of them drink together after work, and Koutarou goes to sleep each night feeling fulfilled.

Akaashi feels so far away right now, and the thought sinks in like a stone in his gut. He feels guilty, and it weighs on him, carrying through to the next day. It’s hard to concentrate on anything, and after he’s been fumbling with a pile of napkins for fifteen minutes, Kenma comes to sit beside him, a hand resting calmly on his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Koutarou startles, replying on instinct. He smiles at Kenma, but he’s always been too easy to read, and Kenma’s not convinced. He meets Koutarou’s gaze, letting his eyes do the talking, and Koutarou wilts, shrugging and prodding at the napkins in front of him.

“I don’t want to leave,” he says after a long moment of silence. He doesn’t mention the guilt, but he’s sure it’s evident in his voice. Kenma sighs, and Koutarou chews on his lip. He’s not expecting comfort right now; he doesn’t know what he wants to hear.

“You could always stay,” The statement is light, but Koutarou hears the strain in Kenma’s voice, knows enough about him by now to realise that he’s invested in the response; that he wants Koutarou to stay. It would be easy, too, easier than Koutarou would care to admit. He’s comfortable here, working beside Kuroo at the bar and chatting with the customers, teasing Kenma until he gets a reaction. Koutarou swallows down his hopes, and they stick to the back of his throat like something sharp.

“I can’t.”

“Because you’re looking for someone,” Kenma says, echoing Koutarou’s earlier words. Koutarou sighs, leaning back on his hands, fingers tapping against the soft fabric of the barstool for a long, silent moment.

“Akaashi.” It’s still so hard to say his name, and it comes out like more of a sigh than anything else. Kenma meets his gaze, eyes sharp and surprised, as though he hadn’t expected Koutarou to give up the information. It’s never really been a secret, but Koutarou finds it difficult to talk about. “An owl demon. He’s been missing for fifty years now. I need to find him.”

“He’s important to you.” Again, it’s not a question, but Kenma is watching him expectantly. Koutarou nods.

“Like Kuroo is,” he explains, and Kenma lets out a soft breath. Koutarou isn’t done though, and he straightens up so that he can bump against Kenma’s side, looking down at the top of his head. He takes a breath. “Like you are.”

Kenma is silent when he looks up at Koutarou. His expression is hard to read, and Koutarou wonders if he’s made a mistake. Teeth pull at the loose skin on Kenma’s lips, and then he sighs dismissively, expression softening.

“We just met.”

If there’s anything Koutarou hates more than being rejected, it’s being dismissed. He pulls back, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards into a deep frown. His mind is reeling.

“So what?” Koutarou asks, indignant, meeting Kenma’s wide eyed stare with his own intense gaze, “Are you saying I’m jumping to conclusions? That I can’t know? I’ve been around a good few hundred years, now, Kenma, I think I’ve learned how to read myself.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Kenma begins, voice still soft, though there’s a frustrated edge to it, “I just don’t see -”

“See how I could care for you? Save it,” Koutarou pulls himself off the barstool, turning away. It’s ridiculous, really, and childish, but conflict always leaves his throat burning and a fierce heat in the corner of his eyes. This is how he was when he parted with Akaashi. He sniffs, posture setting firmly, and takes a couple of deep breaths, smoke curling out of his nostrils.

“I’ll be back later. I have leads to chase.”

Even though Kenma calls for him, Koutarou doesn’t look back as he exits the bar, the bell above the door chiming softly despite the aggression he closed it with. Outside, he pauses to crouch against the wall, inhaling deeply, hands cupping his face.

This is ridiculous. Kenma is nothing like Akaashi, and this time it’s Bokuto who will be leaving, but still… 

He hates conflict.

Shaking himself, he gets back up. Chasing Akaashi is something that he’s used to, and it’s uncomplicated - he can focus on that for now.

Yamamoto’s stories have led Koutarou to the shadier parts of Tokyo’s suburbs, and he hangs low in shambled buildings, collecting gossip and doing favours. So far, he’s gleaned enough information to know that the group does exist, that they don’t stay in one place for long, and that there’s definitely an owl with them, although he tends to hang back from the others, so it’s a mystery whether they consider him one of them.

It’s just like Akaashi not to commit to anything, Koutarou thinks bitterly. Then he thinks of himself, and of Kenma, and Kuroo, and he has to pause to scrub his hand over his face.

Is it a lack of commitment if his search comes first? Is that why Kenma doubts his feelings?

Koutarou’s so lost in his thoughts he almost misses the tengu he’s tailing as he exits a rundown home. The tengu pulls out an umbrella, using it to cover his face even though it’s not raining, and Koutarou huffs, relieved - that’s more conspicuous than it is shadowing, and it will make him easier to follow.

Three hours and two subtly observed meetings in different seedy bars later, Koutarou has a location, and it sits bitterly in his throat. Of course, now of all times is when he has to go back to Singapore. 

He makes his way back to the bar with his hands in his pockets, feet scuffing the ground, the friction leaving char in his wake. His reluctance to return weighs on his shoulders, the myriad of reasons swimming in his head. He's scared to face Kenma, scared to face Kuroo if Kenma is upset with him, and mostly, he's scared that when he gets there, he won't want to leave. No one has made him doubt his conviction as much as Kenma and Kuroo have. No one else has reminded him what it's like to have a home. 

Akaashi deserves a home, too, though, and he needs Koutarou to give him one. Koutarou straightens his back with a sigh, pushing his way through the doors of  _ Untitled.  _

The bar has no more customers than Koutarou would expect it to have on a Wednesday evening, leaving Kuroo plenty of room to level Koutarou with a deadpan stare as he makes his way over. Kenma's seat is empty, and Koutarou clears his throat, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before going to speak. Kuroo raises a hand to stop him. 

“I really don't care what it is, but you both have to fix it,” he says, and Koutarou is relieved to find that the blame hasn't been placed solely on him. “He's in the back, sulking.”

Koutarou thinks for a moment that he'd much rather be sulking too, but he knows it's not true as he nods his thanks, making his way into the back room. 

Kenma is sat in the centre of the beaten up couch, nursing his fish oil in a mug with his lips pressed over the rim, not drinking. He looks up when he hears Koutarou’s entry, leaning forward to put the mug on the coffee table. 

“Can I join you?” Koutarou asks, and it's hard to keep the vulnerability from his voice. Kenma shrugs, shuffling sideways on the couch, and Koutarou takes that for a positive and sits down beside him, hands resting awkwardly in his lap. He glances sideways to where Kenma is hunched over, worrying at his lip. 

He's so much bigger than Kenma. He hadn't really noticed before. There's a long pause, and Koutarou’s throat works, trying to work up the courage to say-

“I'm sorry,” Kenma says, beating him to it, and Koutarou turns sharply to meet his gaze. Kenma does his best to avoid it, but eventually caves, looking back at Koutarou warily. “I didn't mean to disrespect your feelings. I know how you work - of course they're genuine.”

This is more than Koutarou had hoped for. He plays it cool, shrugging.

“It's alright. I didn't mean to spring them on you like that. I kind of get it - must have been easier to dismiss them than reject me.”

“That's not…” Kenma starts, and then stops again, and Koutarou turns more fully on the couch. Kenma picks up his mug of fish oil, draining it. “It wasn't a rejection. I don't… want it to have been a rejection.”

For a moment, Koutarou's world stills. His hands hang uselessly at his sides, wanting to reach out but not quite brave enough to make the movement, and he stares at Kenma, eyes wide. 

“... Then what?”

The question seems to startle Kenma, as though he hadn't quite anticipated being pressed further. His gaze drops to the mug, and then shifts back up to Koutarou as he worries at his lips. They're already chapped, and Koutarou wants to stop him. Kenma says nothing for a long time, and Koutarou shifts impatiently on the couch, refusing to speak again. 

“I care for you.”

Koutarou's first reaction, and one that he can't quite contain, is to fist pump, hissing ‘yes!!’. He watches as Kenma's teeth bite back a smile, and allows himself a hopeful, almost silly grin in return. Kenma puts the mug down, bringing his thumbnail to his lips. 

“You know… that Kuroo and I are…”

“I know.”

“...and you and Kuroo are…”

“Yep,” Koutarou pops the ‘p’, still smiling. In this moment, everything seems so easy, like he's completed the edge of a jigsaw, and now all they have to do is fill in the gaps. He dares himself to picture how things might be. 

“What about Akaashi?” Kenma asks, and the name sounds strange and foreign in his voice. Koutarou's heart drops. 

“I have to find him,” Koutarou says. He can't answer the question Kenma’s really asking, because he doesn't know; he hasn't dared to think about it since Akaashi left. Akaashi makes things complicated… And Akaashi means he has to leave. 

“I know,” Kenma says, sad but understanding, and Koutarou has never felt more grateful to have met Kuroo, to have come to Japan, than in this instant. “Where are you going?”

“Singapore.”

“We can't come with you. The bar…” Kenma begins, with the practiced tone of someone who's given it a great deal of thought, and that alone is enough to make Koutarou's heart soar again. He feels light, dizzy, and dehydrated; there's too much going on for his chest to take. 

“I know,” Koutarou replies, breathless, moving to place his hands over Kenma’s and meeting his gaze, trying to channel all of his sincerity and the myriad of emotions he's feeling into one look. “I'll come back, though. I'll bring him here.”

Kenma turns his palms upwards, squeezing Koutarou's hands. He leans forward, head bowed, and touches his forehead to Koutarou’s, exhaling a long, heavy sigh. His smile is small, but it's present, and Koutarou’s hope grows. 

“I'll look forward to it.”

… 

Koutarou flies to Singapore; there's no one there he trusts to open the lamp for him. He lands with a renewed determination and a spring in his step, confident that when all of this is done, he'll be able to go home. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://fukurokeiji.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/kastronetic).


End file.
